The Oracle
Thebes, Greece
Thud.
Another dull impact made Hermione flinch. They were getting farther apart now. She hoped that meant the cave was stabilizing.
“Please wake up,” she pleaded again, softly. Draco’s body pinned her to the cave floor. She could feel his gently rasping breaths against her chest, and she was gripped with anxiety that they might abruptly stop. His protection charm had deflected enough rock to level a house. The brutal impact was more than he could stand, and he had collapsed onto her. Before his spell gave out, the rubble had crushed itself into a dome that now surrounded the two of them, sealing them into the mountain.
Thud.
”Please, please wake up.”
Hermione shifted her weight to try to buy some leverage, but it was no use. The perfect darkness felt close, and despair started to simmer in her. Her wand was useless without the music. She closed her eyes and drifted.
Thud.
Thud.
CCCRRAAAAAACCCCKKKKK!
Hermione’s eyes shot open. She could make out an edge of the Saturn V through a new fissure in the rubble, about the width of her hand. The morning sun glinted in the stainless steel, and she squinted, disoriented.
The light dimmed for a split second as a shadow passed over the rocket. Hermione’s heart started pounding, and she squirmed against Draco’s body, desperate to wake him.
“Get up,” she croaked in a hoarse whisper. A cough. “Get up! Someone is here.”
Powered by adrenaline, she shoved him up against the rock dome sealing them in, then slid to the side, letting him crash down to the cave floor on his shoulder. He groaned and shifted.
BOOM!
At once, the monolith above them broke violently into jagged shards. She shrank back into the dirt, eyes and lungs suddenly assaulted by bright light and cold, fresh air. Coughing, she nudged Drago again.
“Get. Up. Please,” she hissed under her breath.
A man stepped through the cave opening, silhouetted against the dawn. Walking cautiously toward them with a wand held loosely in his right hand, he silently commanded the massive shards of rock to move aside. As Hermione watched his movement and effortless magic, she was reminded suddenly of Dumbledore. Could it be…?
The man came into view and her hopes evaporated. He was handsome, probably in his forties. He had dark, graying hair and a short beard. His cheekbones were sharp and his lips thin, certainly not Dumbledore, but unmistakably a British aristocrat of some kind. He wore a cloak over a dark, tailored uniform, and regarded the two teenagers with a mix of intrigue and annoyance. There was a warmth in his gaze that felt unnatural. It drew Hermione in, yet left her feeling unsettled and exposed.
"Fascinating," he said finally, his voice smooth and inviting. “Children,” he added with a puzzled expression, looking back and forth between them and the gleaming rocket embedded in the cave wall. He lowered his wand, and the threatening shards of rock slammed to the ground. Seemingly at ease, he strode towards them energetically, and Hermione reflexively positioned herself in front of Draco, who was still lying on the ground.
“Stop!” she shouted, as he approached within ten paces. He complied, taken slightly aback. She looked at him defiantly, and watched his expression transform as he met her gaze. The easy smile vanished, replaced with a look of intense scrutiny, focused on her.
“No,” he corrected himself softly. “Not just children. It’s… you. How can it be?”
“Who are you?” she demanded, uncomfortable to be recognized. He laughed, a hollow, eerie sound. Then an uncomfortable silence.
“I can’t believe it,” he said finally, ignoring her question. “It’s the girl with the Time-Turner.” He glanced at Draco for a moment, searching for some explanation and finding none. “And you’ve come here to destroy my rocket! Why, I wonder? Surely, to have found it at all, you understand what must come to pass?” He regarded her cryptically.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione replied slowly. She felt a nudge as Draco finally stirred behind her. She tightened her grip on his arm to warn him of danger. The man seemed not to notice.
He took another step towards them. “Truly remarkable,” he whispered. “You’ve hardly changed at all.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief, his eyes lingering on her features. “It’s been decades… I was only a boy when we met.”
Hermione felt a flicker of recognition, a dull jolt at the edges of her memory, but the connection eluded her. "I don't know you," she retorted. "How could you know me?"
His smile returned, this time with unmistakeable menace. As Hermione wracked her memory, searching for threads, his voice suddenly intruded telepathically. LET ME HELP YOU, it said. Images flashed through her mind’s eye as the man ripped out memories that had been tidily filed away. She was running through burning streets, looking for something. Another man ran ahead of her, but she couldn’t make out his face. Then they were separated. She turned into an alley. The world rushed by her, and Hermione found herself planted in a small, dingy kitchen, facing a young, dark-haired boy who glowered up at her. Time seemed to freeze.
The intruder in her mind entered the scene through a side door. “Of course, even as a child, I was already quite powerful,” he remarked. Hermione’s heart started to pound furiously. She knew exactly who he was. And she knew that they needed to escape immediately.
The adult Tom Riddle smiled warmly at her as recognition settled in. “Now then. You're here for a reason, and I intend to find out exactly what it is." He glanced around the room and strode briskly to the soot-stained cabinets on the opposite wall. The young version of Riddle was gone now. Hermione slammed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, urgently summoning what little she remembered secondhand from Harry’s Occlumency lessons. There was no time to think about Riddle, or what he might have done with a stolen Time-Turner over thirty years. She could only concentrate on repelling his Legilimency. Think of a wall, she instructed herself. She thought of the low brick fence behind her parents’ house, and how high it had seemed as a child. Concentrating on the brick pattern, she let everything else fall away from her mind.
Hermione heard Riddle throw open a cabinet and pause. Then that hollow laugh again. She opened her eyes and saw with relief that there was nothing inside the cabinet but mortar and brick. He checked the other cabinets and found the same.
“That’s good,” he finally said, turning to face her. “Very good. Let’s start from the beginning, then.” Riddle slid a wooden chair out from under a broken table in the corner and brought it to the center of the room. He sat and carefully folded one leg over the other, then placed his hands over his knees in a listening pose.
“Tell me, Time-Turner girl. What is your name?” he finally asked.
Hermione glared at him, defiant. “Get out of my head first,” she replied evenly, thinking only of the walls protecting her mind.
“Very well.” He nodded slowly and the kitchen dissolved away. Hermione rubbed her eyes and found herself back on the Thebian cave floor. Riddle was sitting on a stone in front of her, unchanged from the projection of him in her thoughts. He looked at her expectantly.
“My name is Hermione Granger.”
“A Greek name. How apt. And what year were you born, Hermione?”
“1979.” For some reason, she expected him to call her Miss Granger. It was unnerving to her that he did not.
“Fascinating," he replied. "Now tell me, why do you think our paths have crossed for a second time?”
“We didn’t know it was you,” she replied honestly.
“So it’s a coincidence, then?” he challenged. She knew it couldn't be. She didn't answer.
"I met an interesting woman recently," Riddle continued. “A priestess. They call her the Pythia. Mysterious. Terrifically powerful. Has an affinity to snakes. Do you know why you remind me of her?"
"Why?" Hermione dreaded the answer.
Riddle stood up with a disappointed sigh. "Because you both hold information that I need, and yet you defy me for no obvious reason." He strode toward her and grabbed hold of her arm. His hands were rough and warm, not at all what she expected from the man who, had she not accidentally interfered with his past, would have become Lord Voldemort. Hermione pulled back, but he was stronger.
“Expelliarmus!”
Time slowed down. Hermione glanced to the side and saw Draco on his feet, wand aimed directly at Riddle. A slight ripple moved through the air. The hand on her forearm released its tight grip, and she heard her would-be captor murmur something as he turned to face the threat. The spell, perfectly targeted, reached Riddle's wand hand, but it seemed to dissolve harmlessly against the craggy sheet of rock now encasing his arm. The defensive charm looked exactly like the rock wall imprisoning the Saturn V, still gleaming idly in the background.
Riddle flashed a sidelong look at her, heavy with disappointment and irritation. The jagged rocks fell away from his arm, evaporating into black smoke before they could hit the ground. He thrust his wand in Draco's direction with a grunt, lunging with his whole body. Draco was abruptly lifted off the ground, suspended by an unseen hand. His expression morphed from determination to alarm as he struggled against the invisible bind.
Turning back, Riddle addressed Hermione impatiently, any trace of warmth now gone from his voice. "This weak boy, whoever he is, is of no use to me. Shall I send him to the Underworld now, or will you bargain for his life?"
Hermione's mind whirled. She needed leverage and had none. This alternate Tom Riddle that she had somehow created was too sharp to bluff, and too powerful to fight, even if her magic wasn't suppressed by the mountain. It would be no great effort for him to kill Draco and pry all the answers he wanted directly from her thoughts. What does he want from me? Why does he hesitate?
As Hermione stood frozen, Riddle's expression changed abruptly, the confident glint in his eyes draining away as they glazed over and turned a ghastly white. Her heart raced at the sight, a cold fear crawling up her spine. He staggered back, confusion on his brows. "What did you do?" he blurted, his voice edged with unease, fixing her with an empty, unseeing stare. She took a few cautious steps toward Draco, who was still struggling midair.
As Riddle faltered, Hermione felt an unsettling energy ripple through the cave, pulling her focus back to the rocket in the wall. There, illuminated by the stark metal, stood the stranger in the Thalia mask from before. She felt the thrum of emotion rise again, the surge of physical strength, the confusing swirl of dread and excitement. As she stared at the vacant smile of the mask, a vivid image entered her mind: tall columns rising against the sky, adorned with intricate carvings. It was a temple, protected by a different mountain. She knew they had to go there.
Hermione wrenched her gaze away from the terrifying stranger and ran to Draco. She seized his leg, dangling above her, and concentrated hard on the temple from the vision. Her magic was back, she could feel it, a gift from the masked stranger. She caught a final glimpse of Riddle, unseeing and furious, rounding on the stranger with his wand. Then a loud crack, and their surroundings faded away.
The high priestess of Apollo sat in quiet contemplation on the polished stone of her altar, the scents of cedar and thyme mingling with the heavy incense that hung in the air. Sunlight filtered through the temple's narrow openings, casting shifting patterns on the floor. The coolness of the marble beneath her wrinkled hands anchored her as she reached outward with her mind for threads of prophecy to weave. It seemed to her that the Fates were busy. She had already had one interesting visitor today, and expected two more shortly.
When the young man and woman from her visions arrived with a clatter in the corner of the room, she opened her eyes to regard them. The brown-haired girl stood tall and alert, while the pale boy stumbled slightly, his brow creased with pain and confusion. The Pythia rose from the altar, her movements deliberate and graceful, and began to walk toward the two strangers. In her mind, she saw a serpent circling around the boy, its bright silver scales glinting. He was to be the recipient of her prophecy. She took his hand gently in both of hers and directed Apollo’s visions into his mind.
Images surged forth: a massive metal construct, blazing through the clouds toward a tall-spired castle by a lake. A woman who bore the priestess’s likeness, gliding past a statue of a soldier on horseback and a grand white cathedral. A clock tower, standing precariously, surrounded by violence. The brown-haired girl straddling the boy on a dusty floor, pulling his shirt off and kissing him desperately.
Last, she showed him the crumbled ruins of the castle by the lake. A comet burned overhead, a harbinger of destruction. Towering over the scattered debris was a colossal statue of a dark, robed figure, a mighty tribute to a conqueror.
The oracle stepped back, her gaze still fixed on the young man’s eyes, which were wide with realization. The brown-haired girl stood poised, watching him with concern. She reached for his hand and he took it. The priestess nodded. They were ready for what lay ahead. She gestured to a side door and opened it for them, sending them hopeful into the morning sun.
As the Pythia settled back onto her altar, she turned her thoughts back to the man who had come to her just before sunrise. A dangerous force, armed with divine favor, she had suspected. But the favor was not from her gods of prophecy, who disdained his lust for power and had repelled him from the temple. What god, then, granted him strength? She did not know. What she did know was that the threads of the man's fate were inextricable from those of the young couple. And, it seemed to the oracle that the brown-haired girl had acquired some divine favor of her own, even if she didn’t know it yet.